Who You Calling A Hick? By David Leonhardt For
last time, I live in country, not in sticks. And I am relaxed, not a hick.
Ever since we moved to country, I get feeling you city-folk are confused. So here is a primer on what it means to be living in country.
When you walk three blocks from your house in city, you will be in another neighborhood...and possibly lost. We'll be approaching our next-door neighbor's front porch.
The neighbors are no trouble at all. Sure they play hard rock heavy metal blow-your-brains out music all evening...but birds and crickets drown out racket.
Our neighbor across road has a sign that stays lit up all night: Bert's Auto Repair. He no longer does auto repair, but he doesn't do sign removal either. See? We have a downtown, too.
We don't need streetlights. We already have stars, thank you very much. What do you mean, "What are stars?"
You have gangs in city. Every now and then, somebody loses an ear, a few fingers or a loved one. Ha! We have gangs, too. Our gangs eat field mice. Bet your gangs won't do that for you.
Don't be shocked if you see a free-range skunk waddling across our front lawn on way over there. We might not have major league baseball, but who says we can't have a mascot? And our theatre nights don't cost us much. Most of crickets and lightening bugs play for free.
Sure, I'll mow lawn. Remind me next month.
By way, it's called a septic tank, not a skeptic tank. And yes, Irma Bombeck was right. And so are weeds.
Every Monday morning I go for a hike. I tie up my laces. I put on my cap. And I grab hold of two heavy bags. Then I walk. And walk. And walk. And just when I feel like I can carry bags no farther, I reach end of driveway. Yes, Monday is garbage day.
Out here, we ride our mowers and push our brooms. In city, we hear you do reverse.
